


wonderful one times one

by just_quintessentially_me, Nilmiel



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Mostly Fluff, Temporary Character Death, a bit of angst, ficlet and art collection, softness and domesticity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2020-10-18 21:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20645873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/just_quintessentially_me, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilmiel/pseuds/Nilmiel
Summary: A collection of artwork accompanied by short ficlets and drabbles.





	1. budge up

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to add a collection here of the art I've drawn and little bits of things I've written to go with it. Megan (just_quintessentially_me) was kind enough to allow me include some of the things she's written and I've done illustrations for as well. Please enjoy!

“Budge up, my dear,” Aziraphale said quietly as he slid carefully onto the couch beside the sleeping demon. Crowley had quite spectacularly splayed himself across nearly the entire thing, a jumble of arms and legs and small throw pillows. He made a small annoyed sound while the angel sat down next to him, and begrudgingly lifted his head to give Aziraphale enough space to sit and fold open a book in his left hand. Aziraphale slid his arm over the couch to try and gain a bit of traction, and was mildly (but pleasantly) surprised when one of Crowley’s hands untangled itself to reach up to his own. “Mmmph. S’nice.” Crowley murmured and arranged his head to rest on the angel’s knee. Aziraphale smiled and began the somewhat difficult task of flipping through the pages one-handedly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artwork and ficlet by Nilmiel. Find it [here](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/185823160159/budge-up-my-dear-aziraphale-said-quietly-as-he) on tumblr.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kiss prompt 39: kissing tears from the others face

The angel was in a garden. Not to be mistaken with THE garden, just - a garden. Overgrown and untended, it contentedly occupied an empty lot in the West End of London, not far from the angel’s bookshop.

In this garden, the angel knelt. He cradled a small, cloth bound bundle in his open palms. The primrose by his knee shifted in interest, while the glossy leaved maple pretended as though it wasn’t shivering curiously overhead.

The demon found Aziraphale as he, with a few whispered words, lowered the bundle into a shallow, bird-sized hole in the earth. 

“This one’s been singing outside my shop for nearly ten years,” said Aziraphale, who had sensed the demon’s arrival in much the same way as the primrose perceives the coming dawn. 

“I thought about using half a miracle to give it a second life,” Aziraphale admitted, sniffling.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t seem right, I suppose. She had one full life already. Who am I to give her two?”

“Fair enough,” Crowley said, and knelt with a sigh. Cupping his hands, he helped the angel scoop handfuls of dirt into the shallow hole.

When Crowley glanced up, his scooping slowed. 

“You’re crying, angel.”

“Yes well, they always did say not to get attached.”

“You know Heaven only says that because they think they’re better than everyone and everything down here.” Crowley’s hands brushed the angel’s as they packed the dirt. “But you don’t - think you’re better.”

Aziraphale heaved a quiet breath and gave the dirt a final pat. “No. No I don’t.”

In the boughs above, a lone starling whistled a mournful melody.

“Do you think,” Aziraphale said, blue eyes lifting to the bird, “Celestial beings - angels - are able to exist for an eternity because we - they choose to remain aloof, rather than feel?” He braced a hand on wet soil. “It _does _hurt.”

“It sure does.”

“…but I don’t think I could stop - feeling. Even if I wanted to. I’ve always, well-” Aziraphale paused, listening to the warbling song. “I’ve always been a bit soft, I think.” 

Crowley’s hand rested near his; their fingers were nearly brushing.

Crowley’s fingers twitched, and then Aziraphale was shifting his hand. As their fingertips brushed, Crowley leaned in.

Soft lips trailed kisses down one tear streaked cheek. Then the other. “Soft’s not so bad,” he hummed against skin. “And there’s plenty more to feel than just pain.”

“Show me, Crowley,” the angel beseeched.

The demon obliged.

In the garden, a second birdsong joined the first; and in the spaces between where their fingers touched, wild flowers sprouted and bloomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [art](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/186048795629/do-you-think-aziraphale-said-blue-eyes-lifting) by Nilmiel  
[ficlet](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/post/185858503792/if-youre-still-doing-the-kiss-prompts-give-me) by just_quintessentially_me


	3. THE WONTONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I am millenial trash and therefore am obligated to make a vine joke.

It was Crowley’s idea to watch telly. Aziraphale had never really understood the fuss. But, as the demon slid over the back of the couch and came to rest his head on the angel’s slipper and give him the most pathetic look imaginable, the angel found his resolve sliding away.  
  
“All right, yes, fine, we can turn it on.” He sighed, closing his book and setting it on an end table. “But I reserve the right to pay no attention whatsoever.”

Crowley beamed at him, perhaps somewhat deviously, and said “Don’t worry, angel, I’ll make it worth your while.” He raised an arm over his head to grasp at Aziraphale’s hand. “We’re going to watch something that will suit us both. Low-grade evil reality shows about food.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ficlet and art](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/186175820269/it-was-crowleys-idea-to-watch-telly-aziraphale) by Nilmiel.
> 
> Someone: Vine died like, 3 years ago.  
Me, an intellectual: [Sounds fake.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5T9kQRwoANo)


	4. Chapter 4

I mean, _of course_ plants don’t normally have _quite_ so many feelings - and even if they did, they wouldn’t be _quite_ that good at expressing them. But Crowley remembers a slithering journey through Eden, where everything, including the plants, was vivid - had just a bit more _life_. And so it really only takes a day - two at most - for the plants Crowley collects to fill his own imitation garden, to start acting just a bit more _cognizant_.

And despite what Crowley thinks, demons do _not_ come standard issue with the ability to sense their angelic adversaries _anywhere on the globe_. Honestly, it wouldn’t even be _fair_.

It’s after Crowley witnesses Aziraphale have not one, but _two_ near discorporations during one of the earlier religious wars (a bloody one which Crowley would really rather not remember), that it occurs to him that the world is a very large place, and that _his_ angelic adversary could be struck down without him even _knowing about it. _The longer Crowley contemplates it, the more unacceptable the notion becomes - until he realizes that if he closes his eyes and really, really _thinks about it,_ he can feel the angel’s presence flitting about, a spark of white light on a comparatively dim globe.

And so when Crowley offhandedly thinks of Aziraphale one day and senses the angel’s glowing presence in the heart of France (which was inconveniently in the midst of a very bloody revolution, by the way), he expends a month’s worth of demonic miracles in order to teleport across half the globe and into a very dark, very dreary, very angel-occupied prison cell.

And of course, when the world is ending, and Crowley _needs_ to get to Tadfield to reach Aziraphale, he believes rather strongly that a burning Bentley with no tires left to speak of can drive _just fine_. And so it does.

It all really comes to a head when years later the world _does_ end - or rather, _Crowley’s_ world ends as the occult blade, dark and flame licked, sinks with deadly certainty beneath his angel’s left breast.

It happens during a skirmish - as Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to save humans from a celestial and demonic battle that has spilled over onto earth. In fact, Crowley doesn’t even realize it’s happened. Not at first.

He’s miracling pale, quaking children to safety, and when he finally looks up, Aziraphale is kneeling on war torn earth. Golden, celestial blood drenches his shirt, pooling around him. Aziraphale’s blue eyes _burn_ and he has time to cast a single, agonized look toward Crowley before he goes limp, and eyes rolling back, he falls.

For an infinite moment, reality _bends_ as Crowley circumvents the laws of space and time to catch his angel.

The battle is finished - battles between Heaven and Hell never last long. In the aftermath, a frigid silence has fallen.

And it’s too late, a part of him _knows_ it’s too late, because Aziraphale is quiet, and cold, and so horribly _empty_ where he rests, cradled in Crowley’s shaking arms.

But this is not a truth Crowley can accept. Because if his angel is gone - really and truly _gone_, then it means the universe is cold, that existence is fundamentally _cruel_; because Aziraphale is _good_, and _true_, and how can a universe _without_ him in it be a part of Her supposedly _great_ plan? Without Aziraphale _nothing_ is great, Crowley thinks, shivering and rocking his angel. Without Aziraphale, nothing is even remotely _good_.

As Crowley tries to contemplate an existence without his angel, his mind stutters and stalls. He can’t conceive of it - can’t _even_ imagine. No, he doesn’t want to. He _refuses_. He _won’t_. _He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t. He won’t-_

_ **Fine!** _

** _Fine._ **

_ **Enough already** _ **.**

The voice comes from everywhere and nowhere, and Her words press in, forcefully carving space for themselves within Crowley’s mind.

** _Just this once._ **

And before Crowley can contemplate the significance of Her words, a soft hand is cradling his tear stained cheek, and Aziraphale, flushed and blinking, stares up at him in wonder.

“My dear, whatever did you _do_?”

Crowley, bends - curling protectively, reverently around his angel who is warm, and moving, and very much _alive_.

“Couldn’t imagine a universe without you in it, is all,” Crowley admits, face pressed into Aziraphale’s soft hair.

“_Oh_,” Aziraphale breathes, and then the angel’s warm fingers are caressing him, brushing away hot tears.

A demon, armed with an abundance of imagination and just a _touch_ of faith is, as it turns out, a power to be reckoned with -

Or - at the very least, a power worthy of annoying a _kindhearted_ god into giving into his demands.

Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [art](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/186315542519/but-this-is-not-a-truth-crowley-can-accept) by Nilmiel  
[ficlet](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/post/186098941217/re-that-the-one-tag-you-put-under-the-adam-and) by just_quintessentially_me


	5. Hope, and Other Reckless Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley grows his hair out once they move to the South Downs.

Hope is a strange thing.

Hope - it is bright, it is eager, it is to _want_. Recklessly, even; flirting, always with the aching possibility of despair. 

It _feels _reckless, sprawled on their park bench, imagining brushing his knuckles along the backside of the angel’s hand.

Hoping for Aziraphale is beautiful and impossible, and Crowley shouldn’t,_ he shouldn’t_.

And yet-

He wants. Wants in a way that is so bright, aching, and _real_ that he has to avert his gaze, because looking at it full on is too much of an acknowledgement of all he is missing.

If imagining brushing hands with Aziraphale is an exquisite hope, then imagining a life together - a countryside cottage; waking up together, tangled in sun kissed sheets; home-made breakfasts; lazy, indolent touches; walks on the beach -

\- it is too much. A hope, beautiful as it is impossible, it all but courts despair.

And yet-

And yet-

He hopes.

Aziraphale is kind, and devious, and selfish, and selfless, and _beautiful_, and Crowley hates himself for hoping for a future which he _damn well_ knows can never be.

Knowing is also a strange thing.

A list of things Crowley knows:

1\. He loves Aziraphale   
2\. Hell and Heaven are on opposite sides of a vast cosmic war.   
3\. He is owned by Hell, and Aziraphale by Heaven.   
4\. Aziraphale is far, _far_ beyond Crowley’s reach.

And then, improbably - no, _impossibly_, the apocalypse is cancelled; and the vast cosmic war is stopped before it can start.

In the aftermath, an angel and demon manage to fool both Heaven and Hell. 

It should have been impossible. Crowley had _known _this eventuality was impossible -

And yet -

Settling back into their bodies, they leave the park, laughing, shoulders bumping.

It’s months before Crowley brings it up. It’s a hope he’s kept buried for so deep, for so long, it escapes him, little more than a mutter on wine-stained lips, a breath between sips.

Aziraphale doesn’t miss it. He’s never missed the important bits.

When they step into the cottage, lazy afternoon sun caressing walls of books and carefully arranged green, basking plants, it’s like stepping into a dream.

Days become weeks, and weeks - months, and a part of Crowley is still holding his breath, waiting for the inevitable, painful jolt when he finally wakes; because they have a soft bed with warm, sun kissed sheets. Aziraphale reads on the porch while Crowley prowls about the garden. Crowley’s hair has grown long, and Aziraphale, perched on a low stool, braids it with careful hands. Walking on the beach, knuckles brush; warm fingers twist together.

For Crowley, hope and despair have been, always, a matched set. It’s inconceivable for one to exist without the other.

But Aziraphale’s sure, steady fingers are playing with his hair, drawing it gently back into braids. Light filters through curtains, warming Crowley’s skin. The angel hums, and it’s a soft, familiar tune.

_Inconceivable -_

And yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by Nilmiel, ficlet by just_quintessentially_me  
find it [here](https://goodomensblog.tumblr.com/post/186660593552/sunshineandchemistry-them-soft-so-crowley) on tumblr.


	6. sunlit morning

Sunlight seeps slowly from the window and creeps languidly across the bridge of his nose. As golden lights dance across his closed eyelids, Crowley allows himself to be tempted, just briefly, to consciousness. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to know Aziraphale’s gaze is fixed on him, just as radiant as the morning light. _Mmmph, _he mumbles, and hears the angel’s breath shift as a smile graces his lips. _Get much reading done?_  
  
Aziraphale presses soft slow kiss to his forehead, and snakes his arm around his shoulders to gather Crowley against his chest. He obliges languidly, cracking an eye open, seeking the comfort of Aziraphale’s face a hair’s breadth away from his own. _You know, my dear, I did. _His voice is a sigh against Crowley’s lips. _I never tire of poetry_, he continues, _and these modern ones you’ve found are quite impressive. I hadn’t expected to find something quite so novel and appealing._  
  
Crowley smirks. _Seventy years ago hardly counts as modern, angel, _he replies.   
__  
Sleep well? Aziraphle lifts a hand to brush errant wisps of hair from Crowley’s forehead.   
  
_Hmm, _Crowley affirms. _Y’should try it sometime._  
  
_And miss my opportunity to see you peaceful and quiet while I read? _He tips Crowley’s jaw the scant few millimeters up to his. _Never, _Aziraphale breathes, and kisses him awake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [art and ficlet](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/187732558959/sunshineandchemistry-sunlight-seeps-slowly-from) by Nilmiel  
Tattoo artist: Mirko Sata


	7. Chapter 7

“Angel.”

Aziraphale is perusing one of the back shelves in his shop when he hears Crowley come up behind him. He can feel the demon’s breath on his ear as he curls up around him, pressing his nose to Aziraphale’s cheek.

“What the _Heaven_,” Crowley hisses, raising his mobile for the angel to see. “Is this?”

“That’s your cellular phone, my dear.”

“You know bloody well what I mean. Why is my lock screen that Someone-forsaken tartan?”

Aziraphale leans back against him, resting his head on his shoulder. “I’m sure I don’t know,” he replies. He brings his fingers up to Crowley’s where they’ve begun to fuss with his bowtie. “You know how I am with these modern contraptions.”

“Hmm, is that so?”

“You must not remember setting it yourself. Or done it in your sleep.” He curls his hand around Crowley’s.

“And all these selfies of you, posing with the pastries I brought last night?”

“I couldn’t hazard a guess. Perhaps the shop is haunted.”

“Oh, so now you make a habit of smiling at the evil spirits who invade your bookshop?” Crowley asks without any venom, and buries his face in Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale chuckles and wriggles himself to look at him face to face.

“Just the one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artwork and ficlet by Nilmiel. Find it [here](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/189073266374/angel-aziraphale-is-perusing-one-of-the-back) on tumblr.


	8. Chapter 8

“Move over, angel.”

Aziraphale looks up from his perch on the couch. The late evening finds reclining by one of the cottage windows in a reading nook he had specifically designed for such an occasion. In a rare state of comfort, he has removed his jacket, shoes, and waistcoat, and even undone his bowtie. Practically scandalous. He never could have imagined doing this sort of thing back in his book shop, but here he feels–

_Safe._

Crowley is hovering above him, a cup of cocoa clasped in both hands. 

“But I’m _comfortable_,” Aziraphale pouts.

“Fine, then don’t move,” Crowley sighs, and before the angel has the breath to protest, the serpent is folding himself in a jumble of limbs to sit beside him with his legs swung inelegantly over his own.

“My dear– the cocoa–”

“I said _don’t move–”_

_“My book!”  
_

In response, Crowley plucks the offending literature from his hands and slaps it onto a pile of tomes beside the couch. Satisfied, Crowley settles into his seat and pulls his mobile from his pocket and begins to tap it, seemingly completely unaware of how he has just upended Aziraphale’s entire evening.

“Really, my dear.” Aziraphale huffs. “I was reading that.”

“Is that any way to talk to someone who just brought you a mug of your favorite cocoa?”

“You want me to say thank you?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it. That’d be nice.”

And he’s just so earnest, so casual in his coziness and affection that Aziraphale softens. Sighing fondly, he wraps his arm around Crowley’s shoulder, pulling him close, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, dearest,” he breathes. 

Crowley doesn’t respond, but a smile tugs at his lips.

“Now, if you don’t hand me back my book this instant, I shall dump you, cocoa and all, onto the floor without any remorse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> artwork and ficlet by Nilmiel. Find it [here](https://sunshineandchemistry.tumblr.com/post/189331198374/move-over-angel-aziraphale-looks-up-from-his) on tumblr.  
  
This is for [ just_quintessentially_me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_quintessentially_me/pseuds/just_quintessentially_me)'s birthday! She's a brilliant, stellar, wonderful human, the author of many ficlets in this work, and lots more! This is the least I can do to repay her for existing. <3 <3 <3 Happy birthday, lovely.


End file.
